Final AU
by shedoc
Summary: what if Moriarty and Moran had reacted differently to the pending end of their reign? What if Watson hadn't believed the note at the Falls? What has Holmes done?
1. Chapter 1

**Final Problem – AU**

Warnings and disclaimer – this is based on a what if Conan Doyle's characters (obviously not mine) had reacted in a slightly different way to the upcoming destruction of the Moriarty gang. Mostly told from Holmes point of view, this could be considered to be very very very very out of character for him and Watson both (but still not slash). It also doesn't follow cannon at all.

There are probably other people who have had the same idea and done it better – this is my take on the theme.

**Cringe** No Scotsmen were hurt in the making of this fic – but I do murder their accent **Double Cringe**

**Holmes – Woes **

The fire at Baker Street never had a real chance to get hold – at the most my rooms suffered smoke and water damage. Given a choice over smoke and water damage or the warning that saved the rooms, I would have preferred the entire 200 block of Baker Street razed to the ground. The empty shell of a man that sat beside me on the continental train, gutted as thoroughly as the modest house and practice in Kensington, had paid dearly for my warning.

He was sleeping now, his grip on my arm no less tight for it, his grip on the revolver hidden in his travelling coat just as tense. It was one of his final remaining possessions from before his marriage – for some reason he had forgotten it at Baker Street the week previously and I had yet to return it to his care. His only reminder from his marital home was the familiar black bag, worn with years of use and marked with the occasional spillage from the medicines he handled daily sat on the seat opposite, still bearing some of the sheen that his dearly beloved had polished into it. He had not been there when the fire had first broken out – I had arrived to find him being restrained by four grim faced constables, even as the fire engine battled to put the blaze out and save the neighbouring properties – his bag was the only thing that had survived.

I had taken him to Baker Street once his neighbour Anstruther had sedated him; it was my vigil over his unconsciously weeping form that saved the house. I could not in good conscience abandon the man to Moriarty now. I had planned to send Mrs Watson to safety and take him with me anyway – now we had merely departed twelve hours earlier than I had originally planned. Everything was in place with the Yard – Patterson knew what to do as well as I did; the man had lost his family to Moriarty and would ensure that nothing was left to chance. Revenge was such an excellent motivator. I would have preferred Lestrade at the helm, but the man had a young family and I could not bear to risk them; this was dear Watson's gentling influence at work.

We had taken the boat to France and then moved on rapidly. Watson only slept when we were in transit and did not seem to care where we went or what we saw, his once warm eyes on the constant lookout for foe. He had permitted me to outfit him with a few changes of clothes and whilst we presented every appearance of two gentlemen on a whimsical tour of Europe nothing could have been further from the truth.

He did not blame me – he had made that perfectly clear from the moment he realised that I had sensed the danger earlier than he had and attempted to shield him from it – but he did hold me accountable. It was her name he sobbed at night, her face he unconsciously sought in every woman we passed. His grief was hollowing him out in the cruellest way and there was nothing I could do to ease it save grant him my immediate presence and obedience. He would not allow me to take the slightest risk, the one time I had argued the point had very nearly undone his fragile composure irrevocably. He would stir if I so much as moved out of arms length during the rare occasions he could sleep, reaching for me even as he woke. He could not sleep without gripping my sleeve or wrist – when holding the latter his fingers sought my pulse automatically. This pitiable state in a once proud man had been wrought by my mistakes: the knowledge burned within every fibre of my being.

There was nothing I could do to ease his pain. That was the hardest thing to bear of all. I could stand the loss of Mrs Watson – she who had become, if not a friend, then someone whose company was not entirely unwelcome – I could stand the loss of Baker Street, though the damage was not severe. I could even, if I must, stand the loss of Watson's friendship – after all it was I that had failed to shield him from the danger, I who had failed to inform him to be on his guard, thus contributing to the magnitude of his loss. But to see him in pain, to watch his very soul slowly dwindle and die behind those once warm hazel eyes a little more each day, was a torture that I had not previously contemplated. I would have given anything to ease his grief if only for an instant, but there was nothing I could do.

Tomorrow, or rather this morning, Patterson would send word to me that the business was resolved and I would take Watson home. Perhaps Mrs Hudson would have better luck comforting him than I. Certainly the knowledge that Moriarty would threaten no more families would help. Perhaps with time and rigorous, unstinting support he would recover from what appeared to be a mortal blow to his very fine spirit. Certainly I would help him in any way that he would allow. Perhaps a retirement from our work for a short period would help – there was a small cottage I had inherited in Sussex that was close to the coast. Surely Watson would be able to find some peace there? Mrs Hudson could probably be persuaded to relocate with us; she had always had the better touch at managing Watson on the rare occasions he was truly ill and in need of care.

Thus it was a double blow when we received the telegram that denoted all but two of the gang's arrest. Moriarty and Moran were loose and no doubt headed my way. For the first time in a week I saw signs of life in Watson's spirit when he informed me that he would not be returning to England and the funeral arrangements; instead he would accompany me as I travelled further across Europe in an effort to gain some time so that Moriarty could be properly dealt with. I had no doubt that had I managed to somehow give him the slip and continue on without him he would hunt me down and murder me himself, and so our wretched journey continued. Truthfully, I was glad of his presence. Selfish though the thought was, I truly did not relish being hunted alone across Europe and we had always been stronger together.

Until of course we went to the Reichenbach Falls. Once again I had to choose between his life and his informed decision to risk the danger for himself. With the death of his beloved I had no doubt that he would choose the danger: more, I expected that he would be most careless with his own life to preserve mine. I could not bear the thought that he would choose to take his own life in such a manner – for that was precisely what Watson would do – and so I sent him away to answer the false call for help. I would not see my dearest friend martyr himself to preserve the man who had failed to protect the only family he had.

I had been forgiven for the cruellest of deceptions once; I knew I would not be forgiven again. Nevertheless I could not resist that final plea for his understanding as I tucked my final, wretchedly short, note into my silver cigarette case, asking him to understand my actions one more time.

I did not expect to survive.

Nor did I expect Moran to have brought the air gun.

The man hunted me from the top of the Falls across the mountains for two days: on the third he inexplicably lost my trail as I transversed a valley, avoiding the rough shepherd's hut that nestled in a crease of land. I spent the night lying in a crack on the ridge, listening in horror as Moran, apparently completely insane, murdered the shepherd and his wife, watching as the small form of the hapless couples child ran from the scene towards the nearest town – at least three days on foot for someone so small. The child hid on the ridge opposite mine and it was all I could do to leave him to his own devices as I ensured that the now calmer Moran left the scene of his brutal crime, striking out for civilisation in the opposite direction.

With Moran on the loose and capable of the atrocities he had committed in the hut below – the shepherd entrails had been used to decorate the exterior of the hut in a fashion that was frankly disturbing – I resolved to remain on the run. The Professor had hinted at the Falls that he had a network in place overseas – that would need to be investigated and thwarted if we were to have any peace at all, especially if Moran had a mind to take his former leaders position. I would have lain odds on that Moran would now attempt to recreate Moriarty's empire for his own use – that was not something I could stand by and watch happen. Mycroft would know when the time was right for my return – he would send me needed funds and watch over Watson for me until I could return.

Or at least, that was what I prayed for as I resumed my weary travels, the smoke of a distant blaze hanging over the ill fated valley.

0o0o0o0


	2. Chapter 2

**Final Problem – AU**

**Watson – Grief **

I had always known that working with Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous business. It was a risk that I had accepted blithely as a single man, a risk that I accepted with some reservation as a married one. However, Holmes had always done his best to protect me and mine and Mary herself had encouraged me to remain in my old post of companion, comrade and physician to London's only consulting detective. Between the two of us, Holmes and I worked hard to ensure her safety and I was well aware that the eccentric detective chose to work alone on some of his more dangerous cases to protect not only my wife, but myself as well.

I cannot deny that my wife's death was a terrible blow. It completely unmanned me for most of our flight across Europe; something that I am sure led Holmes to the foolish choices he made at the last. To send me away and face the Professor alone was nothing short of suicide and I resolved as I scaled the paths above the Falls, aiming towards the man I had seen crouched above the two adversaries, that he and I would be having words over the matter when this was finally resolved. A hoarse scream froze my blood for all of ten seconds: when I could bear to look it was to discover that Holmes was scaling the side of the Falls. In that instant I realised that he had survived the Professors attack, that he had weighed his options and now had no intention of returning to England – that he would allow whoever came across his cigarette case to assume that he had died with the Professor.

Moran moved into firing position and I cursed my dearest friend with all my heart and soul, even as I scrambled to collect enough loose rocks to sour Moran's aim. To fire my revolver would alert Holmes to my presence and that would not do – the man had an uncanny ear for sound had distinguished the sound of my revolver from other gunshot in the past. Also, Moran had a reputation for being able to retrace the path of a shot – I was hoping that by throwing rocks and shifting positions I would be able to confound that talent enough to give Holmes time to escape.

Escape he did. Once I was sure that Moran was in pursuit, yet distant enough from Holmes that my friend was safe for a time, I climbed down to the rock where Holmes cigarette case rested and stood for a time over the small object. My own bleak future seemed to be reflected up at me from that familiar object – one that was wholly unpalatable. There was nothing for me in London any more: I was sure that Mary would understand my absence from our home. Holmes would not return to London with Moran on the loose, and I had no wish to return and be his stalking horse for the Professors second-in-command. I had not doubt that Moran would attempt to assume his masters old place, which meant that there were others in the gang that we had not detected, probably because they were here in Europe. I would have to return to a city that held no one of consequence amidst a teeming population, all the while acting to convince others that Holmes was dead. I would have to play the part of grieving biographer…

Or I could disappear. I could leave here and travel over the mountains. Moran had not been concerned about leaving tracks up above, which spoke to his mental state. The Professors death had unnerved Moran, which meant that eventually he would give up on his pursuit and return to his familiar hunting grounds, whence to flush Holmes out at his leisure. I could shadow the man for a time to ensure he didn't catch up with Holmes – once I knew my friend was safe I could turn my hand to other things… after all, I had not always been a doctor and my time as a soldier had taught me skills that were of use the world over. There was nothing to tie me to England any longer and a man with a sense of adventure and the ability to adapt could recreate himself in Europe…

With an air of finality, as if I was bidding goodbye to a significant part of myself, I unhooked my watch and chain, threaded my wedding ring onto the chain and secured it, dropped them beside Holmes' cigarette case and then followed the tracks to the fatal struggle. It was a moment's work to leap up to the footholds that Holmes had used though my old wounds protested bitterly at the unusual exercise – a moment of scrutiny of the scene below showed that the logical conclusion would be that I had followed my friend into the abyss…

I set my heart and started to climb.

My shoulder and leg were quite troublesome initially as I slept rough and pushed hard to catch up with the two men in front of me, until I learned the trick of managing them as I tracked Moran across the mountains. _He_ had come prepared for the hunt, carrying with him a small knapsack and the infernal air gun that I had once heard, from the depths of my grief, Holmes describe in some detail as he kindly tried to distract me. On the morning of the third day I managed to separate Moran from both the gun and his knapsack, falling on the bread and cheese contained within voraciously. Moran may have been a feared and famed hunter of tigers – as a hunter of men he was apparently somewhat less of a threat. The dichotomy amused me.

I watched in a detached fashion as he cast about for trace of the person who had stolen his worldly goods, failing to discover me as I covered him with his own weapon. Though I was tempted to simply shoot the man and have done with it, I found I had not left enough of myself behind on that rock to do so in cold blood. Though I was numb to the world, I was not yet descended to the baser levels of the depraved criminals that Holmes and I had sought to apprehend in London. Looking back on that time I can only say that I was almost out of my mind with grief and shock; I am forever grateful that something stayed my hand then. To have his blood on my conscience would be unbearable now.

I confess that I heartily regretted that decision when he viciously butchered the shepherd and his wife. I had been too far behind him to stop the atrocities, though not so far that I couldn't catch up with the thin and terrified child that crawled from the kennel behind the house where he apparently slept and ran into the night.

From the marks on the malnourished body his father was something of a brute; from the few words I could understand as I carried the sobbing boy away in the dawn light he had finally discovered a monster worse than his father. Moran had lost track of the sleuth he was hunting, so it was with a clear conscience that I abandoned my own hunt in order to see to the child.

It was a decision that saved me in so many different ways that even now I look back upon it with wonder.

0o0o0o0

That's the last we'll hear from Watson… in a manner of speaking…


	3. Chapter 3

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Shock**

I luxuriated in the first hot bath I'd had in three months. Shallow as it was to admit it, but I missed the comforts of Bakers Street more and more as my exile dragged on. The pass had unexpectedly snowed us in and we'd had more important uses for our supply of fuel than to heat bathwater. Our hosts had insisted that we clean up upon our arrival, and I for one did not blame them – we were more than a little odorous. Of course, I was not planning to stay here long – in fact the sooner I could engage a guide for the rest of the journey down into India the sooner I would depart. I had not had a home in two years as I traced the subtle and elusive web of Moriarty's overseas network – I wished for no home other than that of dear old Baker Street, haunted as it would be with the ghosts of my failures.

This rather large tea plantation was the first civilised outpost I'd seen since leaving the monastery, and even here my exploits as Sigerson, the Norwegian explorer, had travelled ahead of me. They were quite isolated here, the news and periodicals were perpetually out of date, not to mention rather eclectic in taste; I had even spotted a very old and dilapidated copy of Beecham's Christmas Annual, one that offered a story from a 'new' author, entitled 'A study in Scarlet'.

The sight had wounded me in ways I had not anticipated, and I had spent several desperate minutes maintaining control of my features. Watson had died at the Falls two years ago, throwing himself off the edge of the ledge where I had struggled with and unexpectedly defeated the late Professor Moriarty. I had not considered that my dearest friend was so far gone in his terrible grief that he would take his own life in such a manner – had I thought for an instant…

I took a series of deep breaths and waited until my hands were once more steady and the constriction in my chest eased. The monks had at least taught me to manage my grief, also breaking me of the chemical addiction that was slowly eroding my health. I confess that I had resented their efforts at first, barely suffering the presence of another where previously only my dearest friend had been privileged to nag and soothe in turns. They had succeeded though, ordering my wild emotions and taming the demons that lurked in my mind. I had not planned to spend so long there, as I had been passing through on an errand for Mycroft. However my health and the monks had dictated otherwise – I would at least be able to use some of the time spent there to enhance my cover as an explorer now.

There were clean clothes on the rail beside the towel and I slipped into them gratefully. My own gear was being tended to and I had sufficient funds to replenish my supplies before continuing down the mountains and into India. I was met outside by one of the plantation managers and led to the common house where the families of the plantation met for their evening meals and amusements. In some ways it was reminiscent of a London club, excepting that women and children were admitted to many of the rooms.

"You're looking for a guide, I understand?" the manager, I believe his name was Archer, inquired as we entered the main hall. It was decorated in a manner typical of its type – potted plants, wide windows for ventilation and a variety of skins, hunting trophies and weapons on display.

"Yes," I nodded, the Norwegian accent tripping easily from my tongue, though we were speaking English, "Or I would join with a party of men going to the low lands."

"There is a man looking to return to the lowlands at the moment. Very safe and reliable – although he travels with his son… but I am sure he would not mind a famous explorer joining his small party. They do not leave until the day after tomorrow, if that is not too late for you?" Archer pulled out a cheroot and readied it for lighting, offering me one. I declined – I had not sunk so low as to smoke cheroots – and asked the mans name.

"Charles McLeod – Charlie," Archer replied, blowing the smoke he'd inhaled towards the ceiling, "His son would introduce you, I am sure… if we can find him. He is somewhat ungoverned, though of course what else could you expect from a child of his background… Mr Sigerson, you may be interested to know that the boy is not the product of wedlock… I trust that wouldn't be a problem for you?"

"Not at all," I refrained from rolling my eyes. It seemed that here at this particular Outpost of Civilisation they insisted on the Proper Form of things… I had seen it among my fellow countrymen before, a level of pretension that was all the more pronounced the further away they were from any large centre of their home culture. What cared I for the marital status of a mans parents? If he and his father were willing to accept my inclusion in their party then that was all I cared for.

"Neils!" Archer called, attracting the attention of a small boy with a flop of pale brown hair and arms and legs longer than he knew what to do with. He was seven or eight – the height made it hard to tell as he was evidently in the midst of experiencing a growth spurt – and sturdily dressed. I began to revise my expectation of the age of the father, if this was the son. I had been imagining an aging adventurer and his youthful indiscretion grown to manhood – it seemed that was not at all the case.

"Good evening!" he piped, trotting over to Archer. His accent was Germanic, though he'd learned English from an Englishman. His dark blue eyes swept over me from head to toe curiously. It was something that I had done myself on any number of occasions – I wondered if the boy had drawn any accurate conclusions, though my clothes were borrowed… I was dragged back to the present by the voice of the man – the wrong, man, always the wrong man; the right man would never be with me again – beside me.

"This is Mr Sigerson – he wishes to travel to the lowlands. Take him to your Papa, Neils," Archer instructed and took another deep pull at the cheroot. A wary expression accompanied Neils McLeod's second appraisal of my person, but he nodded obediently and beckoned me to follow with a wave of his hand.

We wove through the people thronging about, apparently aimlessly, to reach a table in the corner. It was well lit and occupied by three men – two of which were playing chess and the third who was sketching in a battered travelling portfolio.

"Papa, Herr Sigerson wishes to travel with us!" Neils announced to the table at large and all three men looked up. The two chess players were an accountant and a former Army Sergeant respectively, but the artist was John Watson. Though he wore a full beard and was thinner than I had ever seen him, I recognised him at once. The world went away in a terrible rush as my mind struggled to confirm that it was indeed my friend before me and not some hideously ill-fated double that fate had cast cruelly in my path. But no, it was he – there were the faint scars on the back of his hand that he had incurred in the case with the mad glass blower, and he held his shattered shoulder in the familiar way. His colouring was correct and the ears were a perfect match. He even held his pencil the same way!

"Sit down, Laddie, before ye fall o'er," the accent of a Scotsman tripped from his tongue as if he'd been born to it – in Baker Street we only heard it if he was very ill or very drunk. The Sergeant kicked out the fourth chair and the accountant waved a hand at someone. I retained enough sense to know that I must speak, to cover my reasons for acting in such an odd fashion, but it took me precious seconds to do so.

"Forgive me, we had been snowed in for some time," I managed to get the lie out of a throat that was too tight. McLeod – for there was no trace of John Watson in his eyes or manners, no matter that he wore my dearest friends face and body – snorted and leaned back, dropping an arm casually over his 'sons' shoulders. Watson would have been fussing, his medical instincts rising to the fore. McLeod merely waited until a plate of hot food had been placed in front of me before pulling the boy onto his knee and resuming his sketching. The child leaned into his chest easily and watched with interest no less intense than myself as the scene on the page took life and form.

Eating the meal – a dish of curried meat and vegetables that was stronger than anything Mrs Hudson had ever served us – gave me time to regain my composure entirely and so it was that Sigerson was able to negotiate his inclusion in McLeod's trip to the lowlands. He and the boy were headed for Bombay, which suited me as I would be able to re-establish contact with Mycroft there for my next assignment. It would also give me time to study this new man in Watson's body – to search for any trace of my dearest friend. Once we were entirely away from all eyes and any chance of being overheard or observed I would call him by name and attempt to repair the damage that I had done.

I was not heartened by the fact that Watson had not recognised me at all. Was it possible that I had undergone such a complete transformation in our time apart? I wore my hair a little longer, my nails shorter and sported a wretched little goatee that repulsed me every time I caught sight of it. I had dyed my hair lighter, but that was the only cosmetic effect that I favoured. It was all too dangerous to rely upon wigs and false hair in an environment as harsh as some I had traversed – things had a way of coming adrift at the worst moment. However, the changes were small, inconsequential. Surely he knew me?

"So, ye wish to join us when we leave day after tomorrow?" McLeod broke into my musings as I mopped the plate clean with the last of the bread. I had been starving hungry, so the meal had been doubly welcome.

"If you have room to spare," I nodded, "I am heading to Bombay."

"As are we!" Neils exclaimed brightly, then clapped a hand over his mouth and gave his father a very apologetic look. McLeod merely rolled his eyes and raked his glance over me once more.

"Well, as ye've heard we're headed in the same direction. We'll be a party of five tae start wi' – I'm escorting a couple o' lads down to a lower plantation first if ye can bear th' diversion," McLeod drew a map from the front of the journal that rested in its usual place in his inner pocket, an action that made my heart twist and jump in my chest, and handed it over. There was a route marked in pencil upon it and I examined it for a moment before nodding.

"I can manage that," I affirmed and we settled into negotiating a travel price.

I still didn't know how he'd come to be here, or why he travelled with a boy that was clearly not his by blood despite the polite fiction he maintained, or even yet why he hadn't returned to England, but there would be time enough for those things later.

After two terrible years of grief I had found him once more – alive!

0o0o0o0

Ooooh, shocker!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Death**

We were eight days into our trek to Bombay when my opportunity arose. They were eight of the most fascinating and yet at the same time frustrating days of my life. I had eight days to observe the bond between McLeod and his son – the casual yet firm handling the boy received from his putative father reminded me so strongly of Watson and the Irregulars that I had to bite my tongue at times to keep the words crowding my throat at bay.

McLeod was an accomplished sketch artist – be it landscapes, portraits or maps and studies, his hand was sure and his eye impeccable. His work would never be displayed as a master to be sure, and Grandfather Vernet would have had rather a lot to say on the matter of light, but the pictures he produced into his portfolio were a very vivid record of daily sights and activities as we travelled through the countryside towards Bombay.

On the eighth day of our trek we came across a forgotten temple, being slowly swallowed alive by the jungle around it. The relief's and carvings on the stone pillars and walls were as fascinating as they were unexpected and McLeod set up our small camp without fuss when I indicated that I wished a closer examination of the ruin. I had a cover to maintain after all, and this would be the perfect spot to hold our discussion. He maintained a cracking pace when we travelled, despite the pains it must have cost him and would brook no slacking of the pace.

"It's no' for me to interfere wi' a mans livelihood," he said philosophically as I thanked him for the delay and went to supervise his sons enthusiastic explorations, leaving me to reel from the small barb. Did he mean that he now resented the work we had done in England together? Had he come to view our partnership with bitterness and rancour? It was only by invoking the monks training that I managed to survey the ruins properly, recording what I could and marking the temples location on the map as accurately as possible. There was a man in Bombay that would be very interested in this find, and I would be able to use his resulting excitement as a cover to contact Mycroft once more.

Once we had eaten the evening meal and Watson had seen his son safely to sleep I took the opportunity to broach the issue that had been burning at the front of my mind since I had first seen him. I had spent the last eight days constantly in his presence and still had no idea how I was to begin the most important discussion of my adult life. I had never been known for my tact or ability to tolerate discussion of the softer issues of the heart. Yet it was left to me to initiate this tete a tete – Watson apparently had no desire to do so, though I had yet to confirm that he knew my identity one way or another.

"I need to speak with you," the words were out in the open before I had a chance to rethink them and the man opposite me chuckled and settled himself more comfortably against the pack he was leaning upon.

"Aye, you've had somethin' on yer mind since ye first clapped eyes on me," was the startling reply, "I e'en think I hae a good idea o' what ye want tae say, Laddie."

This was encouraging – if he had recognised me and somehow disguised his reaction whilst I was controlling my own shock, then he would also have been pondering this very conversation. My dear friend was much kinder to me than I deserved and if I was very lucky he would get us past the initial awkwardness of the moment with his usual gentility and compassion.

"However, I would advise ye agin it," the words dashed over me like a shock of icy water, stealing my breath. There was a very clear warning in the hazel eyes opposite me, a resolution that I knew I would not be able to break without destroying us both. There was nothing I could say that would reach the man I now knew lived behind the quietly amiable persona of Charlie McLeod. My grief, alleviated for such a short time, returned in a crushing wave, freezing the breath in my lungs.

"Whoe'er it is ye think ye see in me, tha man is no mair," he continued to kill me one soft word at a time, "Ye'll no get what ye are lookin' for wi' words, Laddie. Ye an' I both know its actions that are needed here. After all, I woul' imagine it were actions that got ye intae this fix in the first place."

"I've only a few days!" my despair tore the words from me unwillingly. I knew all too well that I couldn't redeem myself in the few days of travel we had left to us – my offences against him were too great for that and I had no right to expect that Watson would choose to continue our odd association once our contractual agreement was over, "We'll reach Bombay soon!"

"Aye," McLeod said softly, and for a moment there was the familiar compassion in his eyes. That small glint saved me more thoroughly than any other thing in the world could have, "But the bairn an' I have no compelling business in the city. We could travel on wi' ye for a time. If ye've a mind to it."

"Yes!" I gasped, "I do! I'll likely have work waiting for me in Bombay – I don't know where it will take me, but please… come with me, you and the boy!"

For I knew that McLeod or Watson, he would not leave behind the child that he had unaccountably taken responsibility for. Part of me also knew that to travel in such a group would make my true identity harder to discern – Moran's agents were searching for a man that travelled alone or moved from group to group. Besides, Neils was a good boy, curious and intelligent if a little skittish at times. He asked me questions constantly, when he wasn't asking his father, his mind fully engaged on the matter at hand for as long as my knowledge held out.

"Verra well," McLeod nodded and left me by the small fire, going into the low tent he shared with his son at night.

Though I wanted to rail against the fates that had brought me to this estrangement with the man closer to me than even my own only brother, I at least retained the sense to hear what it was that hadn't been said. Watson had known of my survival, which meant he knew of my betrayal of him at the eleventh hour. He had accepted this and for reasons of his own, had chosen not to return to England. He had 'killed' the old Watson, creating for himself a new life with a new name and for some reason, a son. We had spent two long and terrible years apart, but now that our paths had crossed once more he was willing to allow me to atone for my betrayal. McLeod – I could not bear to think of him as Watson any more and would not until the man was once more himself – was a good man. I had no need to fear that my work on my own and Mycroft's behalf would suffer with his presence. The longer I could convince him to travel with me, the longer I had to convince him to forgive me.

My challenge now was to work out exactly how to do that.

0o0o0o0

Think hard Sigerson!! Think **REAL** hard!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Limbo**

"Don't start wi' me, Laddie, I've had a full day!" the admonition was familiar and welcome. In the last two years I had become accustomed to McLeod's gruff admonishments at the end of one of our peculiar cases. This one had been a little more dangerous than most, though his unexpected knowledge of Arabic had been more than helpful at the eleventh hour. He had taken on the role of protector and sometimes leader of our partnership and hated to be 'coddled' in any way.

However, I could not quite restrain my worried reaction to the bloody streak on his arm, nor the tightly tied strip of fabric just above it. Neils was waiting for us and would not be best pleased at the damage done to his Papa. McLeod took the worst care of himself than anyone I had ever met when working – Sherlock Holmes included – though he had not become lax in dealing with any injury that he or any other member of his party might incur.

We had been separated at the last moment, when our quarry had unaccountably changed their well established plans. The irony was that we were not engaged by my brother to investigate this particular ring of smugglers – McLeod had stumbled across it in the course of his work for a trader. He had been supervising the transportation of silks and other such materials for this man and stumbled upon the smugglers, in his words 'by chance'. Naturally, I had not believed him for a second. McLeod's chance looked a lot like another mans deliberation, so I had treated _that_ little declaration with all of the sincerity it deserved.

I pushed him onto a nearby stone wall and took firm hold of his arm, partly so I could examine the wound and partly to ensure he didn't just get up and walk off. I was risking a punch thrown with the arm that was free and uninjured, but he must have been in more pain that I had thought as he merely growled and subsided, glaring at me with all the force of the summer sun at noon when focussed through a lens.

"Charlie, where's Mr Swindon?" I asked as I cautiously probed the short but deep gash that ran through the meat of his upper arm. Mr Swindon was the representative of the Cairo museum that we had been saddled with when we had presented our evidence to the authorities. He was supposed to be helping us thwart the gang's final shipment and then checking that everything was properly catalogued before being moved to the museum and its staff.

"Ask me why they changed their plans," McLeod suggested in a stern voice, apparently deaf to my question. I paused in my cautious prodding, which allowed him to swiftly resituate the rough bandage, to look at his face. There was a faint line of pain on his forehead, but he was not in any great discomfort. Our wandering lifestyle had allowed the sun to have its way with him once more, turning him browner than I had ever seen him. He was still underweight but there was nothing that even young Neils could do or say to get him to eat more.

"Why they changed their plans?" I echoed, still not used, after two years of travel, to the way McLeod changed a subject. He was as tight as an oyster when it came to answering questions at times, which could be more than a little frustrating. I hadn't dared call him on it though. I knew what his motives were. I knew what I had done to deserve it, too.

"Now ask me where Mr Swindler is…" McLeod sighed, "I do hope he isnae afraid of close spaces."

"You shut him in a crate?" I snorted, though it was probably no more than he deserved. I did so dislike men in a position of trust that abused their powers for personal profit. The mental image was an enjoyable one and I spent a few moments savouring it.

"Tha' doesnae sound like somethin' I'd do," McLeod reproved and stood up, shaking his light cotton robes out so that the sand fell away from them. I had to admit that what would have looked ridiculous on just about any other Englishman you cared to name looked perfectly natural on him. There were times that I longed to see him in his usual tasteful grey suit and frock coat though, wanted it so badly that I could almost taste it. It was like having a warm ghost constantly at your elbow, though his absence was not something that I could bear. Should he leave me I would not survive it, of that I was sure.

"Of course not, Charlie. My mistake," I agreed patiently, falling into step with him. There was a commotion further up the docks as the local police force arrived and McLeod sighed. He was tired and I wished I could spare him this last chore, though he would never allow it.

"Come along, Laddie, we've got some explainin' to do," he shook his head, "I do hope yon policemen are reasonable – I've better things tae do than sort out a corrupt squad…"

By which he meant incarcerate in their own conveyance and wait for the next contingent to turn up. McLeod did not tolerate lies or corruption at all. Though he knew better than to demand it from the strangers around us, from myself and Neils he expected the full unflinching truth and nothing less – no shading of the facts or omissions were permissible. The Norwegian explorer Sigerson had found that out to his cost – there had been a blazing row and a parting of ways only a month into their uneasy association. Sigerson had died a lonely and unlamented death and was buried in an unmarked grave. Monsieur Jacques LeBeau – a French expert in documents and antiquities travelling Europe and Asia – had run across McLeod and his son several days later and the three of us had been travelling together in perfect amiability these last two years.

Fortunately the police officers that had arrived proved to be honest and competent, which meant that Monsieur LeBeau and Mr McLeod could depart at a reasonable hour for the small and modest set of rooms they had rented upon their arrival in Cairo. Consisting of a common room and a bedroom, we fit in like a hermit crab into its shell. I had not slept out of McLeod's arm reach in two years and found it difficult to settle without young Neils soft snores in the background. Of the three of us, the boy was the heaviest sleeper, followed by myself – McLeod had deemed himself our protector and slept very lightly indeed on the occasions that he _did_ sleep. I had come to rely on him to a degree that I had not thought possible with another person – had it been anyone else I would not have been able to give myself over to his care so easily. The lesson had been hard won and would endure for the rest of my life, though only with him.

"Papa! Your arm!" Neils exclaimed in French. Today was Tuesday, which meant he was only to speak in French. Tomorrow he would speak his home language; on Thursday it was to be English. The rest of the week the child could speak as he liked – within the bounds of good manners that was.

"Don't fret bairn, I'm fit as a fiddle," McLeod gathered the boy into a one armed hug and then went to fish out the kit we kept for just this occurrence. He allowed me to assist in laying out the things he would need and the removal of his arm from its sleeve, then I was shooed away while he cleaned and stitched the cut shut.

To distract Neils, I went over his daily lessons with him – both McLeod and I were teaching the boy as best we could, which meant his education was _very_ detailed in some areas and he had picked up an eclectic range of facts in others – before seeing to the evening meal. McLeod finished his task and cleaned up after himself, going into the bedroom to change clothes and taking Neils with him, listening to the boys chatter with the patient ear of a doting father.

It was a very different life to the one we had built in London, but to my surprise I had found that it was possible to be content. I was learning what it was I truly needed to live and live well.

0o0o0o0

**Snickers** Laddie… I couldn't resist!


	6. Chapter 6

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Relief **

We travelled back into Europe, spending six months working on a rather intriguing puzzle. Young Neils talent with languages was not restricted to the modern – he would make an excellent assistant in Whitehall or several museums, provided he went to the right schools – and McLeod's unexpected skill with soft pencil and tablet proved to extend from drawing to map and chart work. Once the rather strenuous climax had passed and McLeod deemed me well enough to travel after an unfortunate brush with a poisoned blade we returned to Asia – travelling in a leisurely fashion down from Bombay to New Delhi on the trail of a jewel thief. It was the work of a moment to place him in the path of the right authorities once we arrived, something we did in a manner that was so well practiced as to be almost casual.

It was in New Delhi that brother Mycroft's missive finally reached me. Five years into our wandering exile, we were at last free to return home. Mycroft had sent my fare as well as instructions to catch up with the English papers, something that LeBeau was able to do by way of accessing the New Delhi library archives. I pressed McLeod and Neils into attending with me, wanting to see the look on my friends face when he realised that we could go home once more. He had never once in all this time betrayed a desire to do so, but our wandering was taking its toll on his health and I wanted him under Mrs Hudson's excellent care so dearly that I could almost taste it.

The English papers were not hard to find. We had of course been keeping track of Moran as he tried to rebuild Moriarty's empire; much of our wandering had been devoted to foiling each new attempt to re-establish certain connections and lines of wealth. We were responsible – anonymously in most cases – for the incarceration of a great number of high born criminals and the lower class men who served them across all of Europe. In addition, we had assisted in securing the Queen's interests in several delicate matters – payment in a way for the funds that Mycroft had sent me from time to time.

Neils was settled with the French and German leading papers to practice his reading while McLeod settled comfortably beside me to go through the English ones. Had I been a stranger, I would not have seen the subtle tensions in his shoulders and hands as he touched these printed links to home. Truthfully, I was no better.

It was not difficult to find the articles Mycroft wanted us to read, the headlines shouted the news for all to see. Moran had finally been caught, by Sherlock Holmes no less, for the murder of Ronald Adair. He had used an air gun to murder the young nobleman through the second storey window of the young mans sitting room. Using a bust and a cunningly designed trap, Sherlock Holmes had lured Moran to Baker street where he had been apprehended by Lestrade of the Yard. The fact that I had captured our last great foe whilst in India pursuing a petty little gem thief was an amusing whimsy that I turned to share with Charlie. The slight smirk on my face faded as I beheld his puzzled scowl.

"Tha's impossible," McLeod muttered, a statement that was so unusually brainless that for a moment I worried that the import of the news had unsettled him, "I've got his bloody air gun – I stole it from him three days after th' Professor went over th' bloody edge."

I stared at him in shock and he rolled his eyes. The affectionate exasperation was clear upon his face, a welcome difference from all the times that I had truly irritated him.

"Come now, Laddie – surely ye knew it was I that delayed Moran at the Falls while ye got a head start?" the soft brogue sounded faintly amused. Once again I had under estimated him and he'd caught me at it. This tantalising hint of the past was something that I could not pursue, though. I would not know the full chain of events that had led to the creation of Charlie McLeod until I had my dear friend Watson at my side. I would only speak of the Falls with my Watson – it was a deeply personal matter for his ears alone, no substitute need apply.

"Where have you been keeping the gun?" I asked instead, receiving a purely wicked smirk in reply. I was long familiar with that smirk – it meant he wasn't going to tell me what I wanted to know: I would have to work it out for myself. I sighed and turned back to the papers, conceding the issue wordlessly and receiving an approving chuckle from my friend as I did so. We had a system of give and take that was like nothing I had ever experienced – and our experience had been very hard won at first.

The papers went on to detail the trial in London, revealing that Sherlock Holmes had been abroad these five years working to prevent Colonel Moran's attempt to re-establish the late Professor Moriarty's crime ring. When the Colonel's defence had demanded that Mr Holmes be brought to the court rooms in person to testify the judge had agreed to see that demand met. The papers reported that the court had been sealed for Mr Holmes' testimony, though interviews with several members of Scotland Yard had confirmed Mr Holmes' presence. I wondered if Mycroft had stepped in at that point, hence the closed courtroom – certainly he would not have been able to locate someone to impersonate me well enough to withstand the Colonel's scrutiny and instructions to his defence. It had been further reported that I had since returned overseas to wrap up a final case, but that I was expected to return to England permanently soon.

Moran was sentenced to death – something that was almost unheard of. A man of his class and connections – though many were quick to downplay past associations with the condemned man – was not hung like the common man. Although the defence did try at the last moment to plea for life incarceration due to insanity they were thwarted by Moran himself. He was due to be hung soon – it would occur whilst we were at sea, voyaging home to England at long last.

"Well Laddie – that's th' end o' that," McLeod sighed, "The monster is dead."

"The monster?" Neils looked up from his reading, his eyes wide. McLeod winced beside me and held out his arms for the now pale and trembling boy.

"Aye bairn, the monster is dead. He'll no' harm anyone else," McLeod pulled the boy to stand between our chairs and I allowed him to take my hand. It was a learned response – though I was uncomfortable with the overt expression of comfort and concern, McLeod had made it clear that my usual aloof nature would not be tolerated where his son was concerned. In reward for my efforts I had become the boys Uncle, or Oncle as he preferred to call me; I was a playmate and co-conspirator, two roles that I had found more comfortable as the years had passed.

"This Moran is the man that killed Mama?" Neils touched the papers with a single cautious finger, as if the ink itself could impart harm. McLeod nodded, unsurprised by the revelation. I myself was frozen once more in a state of shock. My nephew was the shepherds child that had fled the murder of his parents the third night of Moran's pursuit of me! How had Watson found him? How had he known the terrible events that had occurred… of course! He had taken the airgun from Moran on the third day – the Colonel had flown into an unreasoning rage and attacked the shepherd and his woman in their home. When the boy had fled in the opposite direction to my hiding place, towards the other side of the valley, Watson had been there – he may well have seen or heard enough to understand what was going on in the hut below him. He had intercepted the boy and ... though it was conjecture I would imagine that the boy had refused to part from the man who had rescued him. Thus Charlie McLeod had gained a son, the perfect accessory to hide his true identity.

Charlie's eyes met mine over the boys head and he quirked an eyebrow at me. I nodded to show that I understood and filed the thoughts away for later. Once I was with Watson I would be able to ask my questions – I would hear the truth from him and no other.

"Well now, I suppose ye'll be headin' for the shores of home, Laddie," McLeod said quietly and I felt my blood congeal within my veins. That did not sound as if he intended to return with me.

"I will not return alone. When I go home I will have my oldest friend with me," I replied firmly, "Come home with me… please."

I was not so proud that I would not beg. Whatever it took, that was what I would do. After three years with the warm ghost of Watson at my elbow, three years of striving to make amends for my crimes against him, I would not leave him now.

0o0o0o0

I don't think he'll have to beg… do you?


	7. Chapter 7

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Closing Overtures**

It had been a close run thing, I reflected as I paced the length of the deck. McLeod and Neils were engaged in a fencing match behind me, the young boy enjoying the chance to learn combat with a 'sword'. With the long weeks of journey ahead of us, McLeod and I had settled to educating the young man in more of the gentlemanly arts that he would require were he to attend one of the better classes of English schools. I had already put the wheels in motion on that front and Neils, while unhappy about it, had become resigned to the idea of boarding school in England.

McLeod had departed from the library with his son in tow and nary a word to me after my request. I had spent the rest of day in an agony of uncertainty, nervously consuming more tobacco than was strictly healthy and planning how to argue my point. I would not return to England without Watson, and technically he was still not at my side, though I saw more of him every day. Charlie had returned to the hotel rooms we had hired with the stub of a tailors ticket and a gruff admonition to 'open the windows before we choke, Laddie, what were you thinking?'

When Neils had fallen asleep that night he informed me that he had given the tailor my measurements, presented me with a bill and told me he wanted the money before he returned to pick up our new wardrobe. He never said outright that he would return with me but I had learned to place faith in what he left unsaid. The language of the unspoken was a complex and difficult art that we had mastered over the last three years – and we were the closer for our efforts. Still, I was not entirely easy in my mind until the ship had cast off and he'd sent me to investigate the layout of said ship with Neils whilst he unpacked for all of us.

Charlie had shaved his beard off, the paler skin of his cheeks and chin a startling contrast to his nut brown skin. He once more looked like Watson in his light suit and moustache, though the accent and manners were that of Charlie, an uneasy overlay that unsettled and comforted me in turns. However, I began to wonder if I would ever wholly see my friend again as the voyage went on. The paler skin darkened quickly until he once more looked like the thin tired man I had met in the chemistry lab at Stamford's instigation.

I will not deny that the voyage was a difficult one. The past three years of travel had accustomed me to certain conditions, none of which were suitable on the ship. For example, we none of us could sleep the first few nights of the voyage. Though the first class stateroom had two quite tolerably comfortable berths and a settee that Neils slept upon we were still too far out of reach of each other, accustomed as we were to being able to simply reach out a hand to locate the other, sleeping arrangements that had saved our skin more than once. We had eventually given in and dragged the mattresses to the floor to be closer to the boy and each other. I recall with painful joy the one evening when, after too much port and a macabre conversation with an odd American, I was urged into a more peaceful sleep by Watson's dear voice and hand, though he was gone again in the morning.

I did not doubt that I had atoned for my betrayal. I had learned a lot about my dearest friend whilst he was someone else. I had learned that the trust that I extended to him day by day was something that could never be retracted again – no matter the danger we faced. I had learned that placing myself in another's power did not lessen me in any way at all. Watson or Charlie, I was in safe hands no matter what the situation. I had learned to curb some of my more annoying ways – seeing Charlie adopt them had been cringe inducing and it had taken all of my considerable powers of persuasion to ease him out of the worst habits. Charlie had given in grudgingly; in fact I had my work cut out for me in several cases, though the man behind his eyes had been slyly amused.

It was just that I longed for the day that I would look up and see not Charlie McLeod, the extraordinary Scotsman who had befriended me, but John Watson my dearest and most valued friend. It was John Watson that had caught my interest and held it for so long – most men were depressingly transparent to me after a short stretch of time. It was John Watson that had cared enough for his eccentric flatmate to stay through the long hours of doldrums, musical abuse and chemical mayhem. It was John Watson that had taken on the mantle of my well-being, often as not being abused for his kindly attentions.

Perhaps in a way the last three years had taught me what it was to balance a friendship evenly. Our lives in Baker Street had been unbalanced – even the times that I had been concerned for the health and well-being of my friend those concerns had stemmed somehow from my work, whilst his concern for me had been daily and never ending. Though I had acted several times to protect him from danger, he had risked far more than I ever had to keep me safe.

At first, I had longed to see my friend because I had been lonely. Now I longed to see him simply because I had missed him so these last years. My two years of grief had shown me how much I truly valued John Watson the man; the following three years had taught me how to merge myself with the strengths and weaknesses of another. I was sure that with John Watson at my side once more I could apply those lessons learned to blend the two of us into one seamless, unstoppable team. I no longer needed the artificial stimulus of drugs to tame the wildness of my mind, the monks and Charlie had taught me to control those demons. I no longer needed the stimulus of crime to engage my senses, Charlie had taught me to see the world in a much finer level of detail than I had ever thought possible. If that was how John Watson had seen the world all the time, no wonder he did not observe the same things that I did – he was inundated with information!

I longed to tell him that I understood – that I missed him and needed his return. I could not, however. I had agreed through my silent complicity all those years ago that it was up to Watson to return when he wished… now I had to possess myself with patience until he did so.

Unfortunately, despite their best teachings, even the monks in Tibet had failed to significantly expand my store of patience.

0o0o0o0

Grit those teeth, LeBeau… good things come to those who wait!


	8. Chapter 8

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Rebirth **

I woke because the stateroom was empty. Today we would reach England, the last day of our voyage. Neils was in a state of high anticipation – I could only hope that home did not disappoint him. I had not woken alone in the last three years, so the condition was not entirely pleasant. Before I could become overly concerned however, the note that young Neils had scrawled and then placed upon my pillow caught my eye.

'_Gone to see the sunrise'_

Evidently the boy had been unable to sleep and Charlie had taken him out to give me some peace. We had packed the night before, leaving out only a small bag to receive our nightclothes and toiletries and it was to that I turned now. Charlie had laid our clothes out as neatly as any gentleman's gentleman ever could, to save time in the morning, so I had little more to do than freshen up and pull my clothes on.

They were not the clothes I had left out. Le Beau – we were still travelling under our assumed names – favoured light coloured suits. The clothes that waited for me were black. My hands shook as I picked them up and examined them carefully – yes, there were my initials in the laundry mark. I pushed aside all thoughts of where they had come from or how Charlie had managed to secrete them away from my notice these last three years; the man had quite a talent for concealing objects when needed. These were the clothes of Sherlock Holmes, a man I had not been in five years: a man I had killed at the Falls of Reichenbach along with John Watson. I dressed slowly, taking the time to settle my cuffs and collar exactly. Once done I could not help but stare at the looking glass for a long moment. I had not seen my true self for a very long time. It was something of a pleasant shock to be me again – a new me, one that had learned much these last five years. I had no doubt that my patience with the Yard, my penchant for finding trouble and mess making had not changed these last five years, but my friendship with Watson…

The door opened behind me and I whirled to face it. _There_ he was! Finally he had appeared! Someone had altered the clothes so they would fit the thinner man he had become, but there was my dearest friend, smiling fondly at me from the door to our stateroom.

"Holmes?" his smile changed to a look of concern as I stumbled over to him. I threw my arms around his shoulders much as Neils did when seeking comfort and rested my head on his shoulder, tremors wracking through me.

"Watson, thank god you came back," the words were irrational, not at all what I wanted to say to him, but they were all that I had to hand and as always my dearest friend could clearly hear the multitude of things I hadn't said along with the inadequate things I had.

"I never really left you, Holmes," he remonstrated lightly, and I nodded, irrationally clutching him tighter as if he would disappear if I didn't hold him close enough. I knew that he would not cruelly revert to the persona of Charlie McLeod again, that his return to his true self was his way of saying that I was truly forgiven and the past now in its proper place; the knowledge was almost overwhelming. His strong arms came up to bolster me with his familiar gentle, implacable strength and he stood still as I pulled my fool self together once more.

"Come on, dear chap," the name he had used most often for me before our flight to Europe sounded like home in his London accent, "Neils wants to watch the sunrise with you."

0o0o0o0

**Sniffle**


	9. Chapter 9

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Resolution **

We bought books on the way to the train station – as many as we could carry, knowing that Neils would need to be entertained at the very least. We were fortunate enough to have the compartment to ourselves, something that was mainly due to Neil's exuberant questions and energy frightening away any traveller that looked at our compartment. Evidently they did not know the difference between a child properly educated to active inquiry and deduction and one that was simply an uncontrolled hellion. We had a sheaf of the London papers, I had a pouch of my favourite tobacco and Watson a twist of humbugs – which I had dropped into his pocket in a fit of whimsy and he had not discovered until we were on the train itself.

Neils occupied one of the window seats, alternating between kneeling on the seat with his hands and face plastered to the glass and combing voraciously through his new books. We had not been able to carry very many texts with us over the last five years – they were heavy and space was at a premium at times – but the boy had developed Watson's love for books despite that. He was also the proud possessor of a new journal in which he frequently paused to scribble his thoughts and impressions. Watson had insisted long before I came across him in that tea plantation that the child learn to write, and write well. Occupied by all of these things, the boy had no attention to spare us and so Watson judged that the time was ripe for a long over due conversation.

"I never believed that note was real," he murmured, apropos of nothing, though I knew at once which note he referred to, "I had not seen any English woman arrive and you know I had not been sleeping deeply or well in those last few days."

"No," my heart twisted at the thought. He had known from the start that I had deceived him, though I stood by my decision to try and spare him at the last. He had suffered so much, poor boy; I could not bear to risk his life at the very end. It would have been a betrayal worse than the one I had chosen to commit.

"I was a four hour round journey from this 'patient' – there were other doctors nearer by and if she was that badly off she'd have had one of them to treat her. Besides, no woman who could afford to make such a long and expensive trip for her health would travel without her personal physician in tow. Thus I had no trouble with my conscience in choosing to disregard the summons," he continued in a quiet voice. In reaction I twined my arm through his, an action he permitted. The tension in my arm as it gripped him must have communicated how much I dreaded hearing his reaction to my betrayal, but he continued to speak gently. We needed to have and complete this ghastly conversation, even if I would rather have been shot in all four limbs and left in the desert.

"I let the boy run ahead and when we reached the switchback that led to the top of the falls I followed it instead. You had mentioned that Moran had gotten away with Moriarty – do you remember speaking to me of it? You were trying to distract me from my grief at the time – although it may not have seemed that I heard you I always did, and I thank you for that old chap. I knew that Moran was with his master, and that the man was a sniper, so my best course was to try and find his position above you on the Falls – I never for a moment doubted he would be there. I was nearly to the top when I heard the scream. I thought for a terrible moment that you had fallen too… but then I saw you climbing up the side of the cliff there, like a ruddy great spider."

There was an echo of the grateful relief he'd felt in his tone and his arm squeezed mine as he remembered. I shifted closer in return, needing the contact, irrationally, to prove that he was with me now as he revisited the worst stretch of our friendship in a gentle voice. That climb had been hellish, and not because of the difficulty in scaling the cliffs.

"I knew that Moran was expert at tracing gunshots back to their source – something he had developed into a science as a sniper and continued to refine as a hunter. So I had been gathering what rocks I could find of sufficient size and weight to throw. I reached a vantage point with good and varied cover just as he fired his first shots at you. Using my own ammunition I managed to put his aim off and then keep him busy long enough to give you a head start…"

"Even then you protected me?" I murmured my eyes and nose burning, "Oh dear friend…"

"Even then," he sighed, "When Moran went in pursuit of you I returned to the ledge where you had battled the Professor. I saw the note and case, left my watch and ring with it and then retraced your steps, climbing much as you had."

"But why?" the question had been burning in my brain for years, something that McLeod would not have answered, even if he'd acknowledged it. Why would the man that I had betrayed, had left behind to think that I was dead, just as his beloved wife was, continue to protect me? Why had he not just washed his hands of me?

"I had nothing left in England. Mary was gone, the practice burnt… my Will was on record at the bank, so I knew that she would be seen to a decent resting place and my debts repaid. You had left me… I knew why of course, but it was a parting of the ways none-the-less and one that I had no say over, one that you had not seen fit to consult me in…"

The gentle grief in his voice was a welcome change from the terrible black abyss he'd fallen into when the blow was freshest, yet it tore at me to hear it still.

"I'm not sure that I know why I left you in such a way any more… my reasons were noble and self sacrificing at the time, but now… looking back… my dear Watson, how did you ever find the grace to forgive me such a hideous betrayal?" my voice was choked, unrecognisable as mine, though the words were heartfelt. _I needed to know!_

"I have always been – in some form – the representative of those causes you fight for," Watson said it simply, "Right or wrong, you held me up as an ideal, a muse of sorts. Mary knew it; she encouraged me to spend as much time with you as possible because of it… God love her."

"Angels keep her," I added my own sentiment to that; we sat in silence for a moment, each paying our own tribute to the extraordinary woman that I had learned grudgingly to share Watson with. We had not finished our conversation though, and Watson knew full well that I would not be able to settle with things half told… and so he stirred himself from his gentle grief to see to my needs once more. I loved him all the more dearly for it.

"Once at the top I followed Moran's trail. He was not being particularly careful at first, perhaps because he knew that he too would have a head start over whoever had interfered on your behalf. I was never certain if he guessed it was me or thought it to be a hired man that you had engaged, but it's of no import now," Watson shrugged endearingly, and I nodded my agreement. It was a trifling detail, one that I would for once be happy to leave unremarked. I would, however once I had better control over my wretched words, find a way to ensure he knew that no hired man would ever be able to compete with the trust we shared between us. That was a task for another time, though, one that I would take the utmost care with.

"We spent two and a half days in convoy – him hunting you, me hunting him," Watson sighed, "But on the very early morning of the third day I once more came in range of him. One cricket ball sized rock and a corker of a throw later; I had him laid out before me. I will admit that I was sorely tempted to just shoot him as he lay there, but I've never been a cold blooded killer and I wasn't about to start then and there either. I took the wretched airgun and his knapsack and hid myself away very carefully. By the time he woke I was out of his reach."

"He gave up on the third day," I murmured in chilled recollection, glancing at my dear friend and wondering if I should mention the atrocities that Moran had committed in his fury at being bested. He would sense that I was keeping something back from him; the longer I delayed the worse the shock would be. I had not thought of that night for some time, simply because it had wracked me with nightmares for many days afterwards.

"I wish I had shot him like the mad dog he was," Watson said bitterly, "He came across a shepherd hut belonging to a small family… in his fury, he slaughtered them, though the only child escaped his atrocities…"

"I saw…" my mind whirled and I turned my gaze to the young man currently plastered over the carriage window opposite. Neils was oblivious to our conversation still, being occupied with calculating the speed of the train if the calculations on the page of his new journal were anything to go by.

"I found him among the rocks, hiding from the man who was a worse monster than his own father. He'd suffered some degree of physical abuse from his father for most of his life, was horribly malnourished… I had a choice, to leave the boy and hunt Moran down or take him to safety and leave you to your own devices. I chose the boy."

There was no apology in his voice or face and I would never reproach him for that either. He had ensured that I was as safe as he could make me when he'd turned his attention to someone whose need was greater. Besides, if he had not acted as he had our lives would have suffered a distinct lack in the past few years…

"What made you decide to keep the child with you?" I smiled fondly at the top of his bowed head, knowing he would hear the approval and gratitude and hundreds of other things that I could never find adequate words for. It was one of his dearest qualities, his ability to hear what I didn't say, to read what I could not express. I was his book in some ways, he had studied me well.

"I reached the nearest village; no more than two or three families lived there and they were not… enthused at the situation I brought to their doorsteps. There was something of a language barrier at the time, I took it that they knew of the family and wanted nothing to do with the father. They promised to go and see to the remains… but I was to take the child to the nearest large town, which had officials that would decide on the boys disposition. They gave us food, clothes for the boy and directions. By the time we reached the next village though…"

"You couldn't bear to part with him? Oh Watson, thank god you did not…" I startled him with my fervent tone but he looked up and smiled, quiet joy and gratitude radiating from him in such a wave that I felt quite warm. Neils had been a distraction I had not wanted to deal with at the beginning of our odd travels, but once I had come to know the boy – for Watson's sake at first, then my own – I had come to value him on his own merits. He was also quite useful in our work, which did not hurt his case. I had sent to Mycroft for papers to prove the boy ours to raise – he had Watson's last name now.

"The villagers did go to the hut, you know," I murmured, "They burnt it to the ground – probably in a fit of superstitious terror. He… I think he was truly insane to have committed the atrocities he did. But you were speaking of your dilemma – to retain custody of Neils or turn him over to the authorities' dubious care…"

"So I didn't," he finished the tale simply, "I was no longer John Watson; a curiously liberating condition…"

"Yes," I agreed simply, though I had missed being myself more than I would ever admit, even to the man beside me.

"I managed to catch up with our luggage before it got too far on its journey back to London and stole the emergency funds that we had hidden there… also a set of our clothes… it was mad I suppose, but I never doubted that I would find you one day, or you would find me. I wanted to know that one day I would see my friend as he was before me… it was a comfort to know that I had the means to do so with me," he sighed softly and I pulled his arm closer to my side, struggling to find the right words to respond to this: to tell him that I was so very glad that he had.

We sat in silence for some minutes, then in a display of that pawky humour that had lurked beneath the surface of my friend all of our long and fantastic association, he pulled the little twist of humbugs from his pocket and offered me one, startling me into a burst of laughter that attracted the attention of my nephew.

"Are you finished telling secrets now?" Neils demanded, shutting his journal on the page he had just finished – from the brief glimpse I had gotten he had written in his usual mish mash of languages, which would frustrate his school masters no end – and bounced over to our side of the carriage, "I want to explore an English train!"

"Come on then, young man," Watson laughed. His hand squeezed my wrist for a moment and I reluctantly allowed him to disentangle from my arm, "Let us see if there is a dining car. Holmes, do you want a sandwich?"

"No, but I suppose you'll bring me one anyway?" I asked, merely for the joy of seeing his smile and the oh-so-patient and familiar roll of the eyes that our old argument earned. Neils giggled and tugged his fathers hand impatiently, guiding them both into the corridor outside, his young voice echoing back to me as the door slid shut. I settled back against the thin cushions on the bench, glad for the solitude… I needed time to assimilate my incredibly undeserved good fortune and formulate a plan to preserve it in private.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes – Words **

"May I?"

They were the first words spoken in our compartment for some time, uttered at a necessarily low volume to avoid waking the child that had _finally_ fallen asleep on my leg after existing in a fever pitch of excitement ever since the first sight of land. Neils had thoroughly enjoyed our years of travel – each new country was greeted with the same enthusiasm, each country revisited was no less a source of delight. However we had learned that eventually the boy would fall asleep in the right conditions, especially if his companions were still and quiet for any stretch of time.

Watson handed over the sketch he had just completed, stowing his pencil in the battered portfolio. It was myself, seated with one foot propped upon the bench, a hand dangling from my upraised knee with a cigarette held loosely, my other hand steadying the boy who slept stretched out beside me. He had drawn the English countryside outside our windows as well; it was undoubtedly a perfect mirror of what he could see, but as usual there was no indication of himself in the picture.

It had been this way in his writing before we left Baker Street; apart from the fact that the stories were narrated in his voice you would not know of his presence and contributions to my work. His sketches were obviously drawn by someone – they were always unsigned – but there was never any image of himself in them, unless you counted the few where he sketched his hand as it held the shard, fragment or artefact that was the subject of the picture. I detested his absence from both his words and pictures but there was nothing I could do about it. The one discussion I had attempted with Charlie on the matter had not ended well, though he had forgiven me for it.

If each picture was worth a thousand words, then he had written encyclopaedias in the last five years. I do not know what he did with each set of sketches once they were finished, by all rights we should have needed a separate pack mule to transport them around, but the sketching had been McLeod's way of recording our triumphs and setbacks, as well as our friendship and daily life. My slowly developing relationship with Neils was in those pictures, as was Sigerson and LeBeau's work as explorer and antiquity expert respectively. I did hope that they weren't lost irrevocably, though it was possible that they had been destroyed as a threat to our safety. These last five years, we had needed our anonymity to survive and in the wrong hands the pictures would have threatened that.

"Ten minutes to London!" the porter shouted and we both turned to the window, craning our necks for the first glimpse of home as Neils stirred himself awake under my hand.

"Oncle?" he murmured sleepily and I pulled him up gently.

"Look, Neils – London!" I breathed, pleased beyond all words to be home at last. I was familiar with London in a way that I could not reproduce anywhere else. Though I could still use the traces upon a mans clothes in the middle of Rome to tell where he had been, it took considerably more footwork to do so – London I had memorised and catalogued much as a man does a lover. Watson shifted from his seat opposite to join us as we peered out at the smoky skyline, the silhouette subtly different and yet still recognisable after five long years away.

"I wired Mrs Hudson our arrival time," I informed my dear friend as we stood and gathered our coats, the books we had bought to occupy Neils and the two light bags we had carried with us. Our heavier luggage was in the baggage car and would require the services of a porter and his trolley.

"Then let us hope she has the kettle on, I'm gasping for a decent cup of tea," Watson pulled a face and I laughed. He really was particular about his tea and had treated us to several rather amusing rants about the misuse of good tea leaves on more than one occasion. Neils and I had learned to weather the storm quietly – to object was to heighten its fury.

"Oh Papa: you and your tea," Neils rolled his eyes, sending me a patient look. I smirked at him in response and fielded a quite imperious glare from Watson when he caught me. The houses were rushing past now, and I fidgeted into my coat and hat, checking anxiously that nothing had been forgotten.

"Its good to be home," Watson murmured, his face practically pressed against the glass, Neils beside him, no less excited. I fixed my eyes upon his dear form and nodded, unable to express how much I agreed with him.

Then the train was slowing and in moments we were stepping down onto the platform among a throng of people, listening to the cacophony of English accents around us as the passengers strove to clear the train and barriers and disperse into London herself. Watson had Neils and a porter in hand and so, by long established practice, I secured for us a cab to take us home to Baker Street. I bumped into a constable on the way, entirely by accident as I was trying to avoid a nanny and her herd of unruly charges. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, I would be receiving an official visit from the Yard at some point this evening.

"I must admit, Watson," I murmured as we all settled into the cab, "I do feel no little amount of trepidation at Mrs Hudson's reaction."

She had been sorely tried over the years, our landlady. Five years without word from either one of us was cause for a scolding at the very least. I hoped that Mycroft had at least borne the initial brunt of it all; she would not have been pleased to think that I had lied to her about my well-being. What she thought of Watson's absence was also a point of considerable concern to me – I would not have his decisions questioned by anyone.

"I plan on hiding behind her grandson," Watson nodded towards Neils complacently, recalling me to our conversation. I shelved my concerns for another time, after all we had no calls upon our time now, "I have no qualms on that front."

"Capital!" I grinned fondly at the boy who was hanging half out of the cab in order to see as much as possible.

0o0o0o0

You cowards! Heh heh…


	11. Chapter 11

**Final Problem – AU**

**Holmes - Finale**

"What will you do now, Doctor?" Mrs Hudson asked from her place on the settee. She had indeed been distracted by the arrival of her 'grandson', which had gotten us over the worst of the initial greetings, though none of us had escaped her embraces or scolding entirely.

There had been a rather magnificent set of journals waiting on the table in our old sitting room, and contained within the pages was nearly every sketch and map that Watson had made in the five years of his absence. Apparently he had contacted Mycroft at one point in the initial two years of our exile on an urgent matter, after which he had sent my brother the sketches he had completed once his portfolio became full. Mycroft had kept and mounted these into the journals upon the table, delivering them to Mrs Hudson when done. At her request we had sat down and leafed through them, supplying one or two stories to go with the pictures.

I planned to twit my brother mercilessly over his sentimentality at the next available opportunity.

"I don't want another practice," Watson said quietly. He had, being the organised man that he was, left instructions for those that remained behind if he and his wife should happen to die together. Those instructions had been used to bury his beloved in his absence. We would journey to her resting place together tomorrow morning – Watson to make his apologies for his long absence, I to make my apologies for my hand in her death.

"I shall register as a locum once more," he continued, "It will keep me busy, I am sure, and leave me time to assist Holmes on his cases – provided that is, he still wishes a comrade in his agency."

"I would go so far as to say that it is mandatory," I replied, "There is no agency without you, my dear friend. What would Holmes be without his Watson?"

"LeBeau," Neils replied at once, startling me into laughter. Watson chuckled heartily, tipping the boy a wink and nod that showed his agreement.

"Quite right!" I agreed, "And that little Frenchman wasn't a very interesting chap!"

"I didn't mind him," Watson's crooked smile spoke of mischief, "Though I think Charlie McLeod liked him better."

"Charlie McLeod?" Mrs Hudson asked, curiosity plain in her voice.

"Aye lassie, old Charlie went a travellin' wi' LeBeau for nigh on three years," the thick brogue was startling in this setting, and unwelcome, "They two Laddies were good friends."

"Oh dear," was our landlady's reply, "I do hope you didn't pick up Mr Holmes' way with disguises Dr Watson. One in the house is quite enough if you don't mind my saying so!"

"Charlie was the only disguise I ever used, Mrs Hudson, and he's a sight more respectable than some I could mention," Watson reassured her. The downstairs bell rang and our long suffering landlady got up to answer it.

"Just as well," was her parting shot, "I'd like a few days grace before this house returns to its status as an extension of Bedlam if you both please!"

"Oh I think we can manage that," I smirked, getting an impatient sniff in return.

By jove it was _good_ to be home!

**END**

**Ducks behind nearest large enough object** See what happens when I'm snowbound for four days straight???? Yikes!


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